Rediscovering Enlightenment

Let me make this clear: I am a yogi before I am a runner. Long before all of this crazy distance running business, I had a deeply personal relationship with my yoga mat. I will always be a yogi first and foremost. It's my thing.

I found yoga (or more accurately, it found me) a little over 5 years ago, when the stress of a grueling job began to manifest itself physically. It registered in my upper shoulders, with pinched nerves. It travelled down my right arm and wrist in waves of numbness and tingling. It took up residence in my lower back, with an ache that steadily worsened as my work days grew longer and more demanding. The day I started having chest pains, I knew I had to make some serious changes or risk suffering a nervous breakdown.

I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Venice Beach that was about the size of a walk-in closet. My neighbor down the hall, sensing my desperation, casually mentioned a yoga studio 2 blocks away that had half-price classes on Saturday afternoons. I knew the place. I'd walked past it several times before, but never got up the nerve to go inside. What could it hurt, I thought. I headed over there one day to see what it was all about.

I had no idea I'd feel so at home in that calm, airy space. The quiet energy forced my mind to be still. I flowed through asanas, opening up all the tight spots in my body. I unleashed all that negative energy and allowed myself to be present in the moment. I gained strength, flexibility, focus, and acute self-awareness. It was absolutely the thing I needed to gain clarity and take control of my life. I eventually changed jobs, but my practice always remained. I returned dutifully every week, sometimes twice a week. I was hooked.

It's been a year since I moved to Portland, and I still haven't found a yoga studio that I've connected with on that level. The week before flying to LA to see family, I frantically checked the class schedule for my long lost yoga studio, mentally carving out time to make the journey back to Venice. It was just like old times: making a much-deserved appointment with myself to find my center and reconnect.

The space hadn't changed much since I left. Same half-price classes in the afternoon, same core group of talented instructors. I took a Level 1/2 class, since I was a bit rusty. With my rented mat tucked under my arm, I crept into the large, open Sun room. I settled down on my back, breathing deeply, and briefly glanced up at the open ceiling above me. Same faceted teardrop crystal dangling from the exposed metal pipes, tied in place with a red ribbon. Good Feng Shui. Just knowing it was still there, hanging in the same spot, gave me a sense of reassurance.

The instructor greeted the class warmly. "You can always tell how your practice is going," he began, "by what kind of person you are when you're on a family vacation." It was uncanny how he practically read my mind. "I think I stay enlightened for about...two days, tops." Everyone giggled knowingly.

He went on to say that nurturing relationships with family is important because you've known each other your whole lives. You have deep karmic ties with family. They know you best, you know them best.

"The deepest ravines of karma, that need to be cleaned out occasionally," he said.

We all closed our eyes and brought our palms to our hearts' center. Inhale. Exhale.

Namaste.

Palm Trees and Power Lines: My L.A. Vacation in Photos

What a long, strange week it's been. J and I headed back to L.A. for a much-needed escape from reality. Pull up a chair, sit back, and enjoy the highlights of our misadventures en la ciudad de los angeles...

A day at the beach was at the top of my list. The cruel Portland winter had left me with a sickly yellow pallor, which I was desperate to erase. An afternoon of Vitamin D left me with a healthy, sun-kissed bronze glow. Aaahhhh...

J was desperate for some quality saddle time. He borrowed his old Cinelli road bike from my uncle, and navigated PCH with vigor. Canyons, scenery, sun, and the crisp sea salt air...

We scheduled a reunion with our former roommate and Jamie's best friend, Bryon. When we lived together, I always said it was like "Three's Company: The Dyslexic Version."

The Parentals.

No L.A. trip is complete without the obligatory stop here.

We went to the drive-up In N Out on Ventura Blvd., which has been around since I was a kid. For some reason, the burgers just taste better here.

Burger bliss.

Commuting. View from the Hollywood Freeway.

Hollyweird.

Capitol Records building.

Downtown.

We stopped at Touch gallery in Culver City to visit our friends Zoe and Peter. They were hosting a cool exhibit called "Indisposed." The premise was to creatively intermix art and design with a strong message of sustainability. We viewed some very clever forms of environmentally friendly, chic product design.

Firewall. Reclaimed pine firewood is CNC-milled and stacked into an integral architectural sculpture. Using the logs as kindling alters the shape and form, resulting in a continuously evolving art project.

The Auto-Cannibalistic table. It's made from paper egg cups, flour paste, soil, and seeds. Just add water, and the seeds germinate, eventually causing the table to eat itself.

Pleated Paper Can, made from recycled and folded paper cups. No need for a trash bag - just use until it's full, then take the whole thing out with the garbage.

TRASH: anycoloryoulike. Biodegradable trash bags are dressed up in fun, bright colors and create visually arresting images when heaped in piles on the streets and sidewalks.

Wasabi. So Takahashi creates chic paper plates so you don't have to suffer the indignities of generic floral print. Wouldn't you think twice before throwing these away?

Furniture To Go. Lego-shaped take-out containers are reused as furniture components so the user can assemble their own custom designs. Eat and build, build and eat.

We had to visit our old Santa Monica neighborhood hangout, The Daily Pint. They have an impressive selection of about 180 bottles of single malt scotch...

...and cask-conditioned English IPA.

More beach time. On our way back through Malibu, we stopped at Moonshadows Blue Lounge for some cocktails. This was our view from the deck.

J lounging on a cabana.

Ah, summer vacation.

Mojito madness...

...and delectable Ahi tuna tartare with wasabi cream and avocado. Yum.

It was one of those picture-perfect afternoons on the coast. The sky was crystal clear, the ocean bright blue. Don't the clouds look like a map of Hawaii hanging in the sky?

Cute new sandals, courtesy of Mesh & Lace in Silverlake.

Self-portrait, snapped in the car. "Smile with the eyes."

J got in more coastal bike riding, while I (of course) strapped on running shoes and hit the pavement.

Cycling, running, yoga...all that activity sure builds up an appetite. This looks like a job for...

...The Godmother, courtesy of Bay Cities Italian Deli. Throw in a Coke and you've got quite possibly the best lunch on the Westside.

And that concludes our trip to L.A. Even though I only moved a year ago, it no longer feels like home to me...but it does make for a pretty nice visit.

So glad to be back in Portland and ready to run on!

Rising Like the Phoenix

These past few weeks have derailed my training regimen. Family visiting, heading to Eugene for a weekend, getting sick with a stubborn cold that won't go away, and travelling to Los Angeles to visit family all pushed me further away from my goals. At the end of the week, I was absolutely desperate to elevate my heart rate and get my wobbly legs moving.

I woke up early in a suburban enviroment that had once been so familar, but was now completely foreign. The sky was bright and crystal clear. The Santa Ana winds blew gently, rustling up dead leaves and small puffs of dust. It was only 7:00 AM, but the oppressive sun was already making its presence known. Dry waves of heat reverberated from the black asphalt, creating a blurry mirage effect from several feet away. My throat was parched and my nose stuffy, but I was compelled to log some miles.

I dressed in my lightest layers, sensing the challenge ahead. I stocked the hydration belt with an extra bottle, and went for fresh, cold water instead of sugary sports drink. After six months of solid training, I cut a sleek form in my black Nike running capris and slim, fitted technical tee. My stepdad surveyed me as I ambled into the living room. "You look fetching," he observed. I couldn't help but smile, as this was me in my most natural state these days.

I had mapped out a loop in my head, which roughly equaled six miles out-and-back. Quiet side roads, hills, some trees for shade, lots of dry brush, very few cars, perhaps a few cyclists, and lizards. The absence of flying insects that sting was graciously welcomed.

I slid the iPod ear buds in. The music was my companion today, my motivation.

Work it, make it, do it, makes us smaller, better, faster, stronger...

I was pleased to see that a few slow weeks didn't completely eradicate my fitness. In fact, afer my "mini taper" I felt energized. Punchy, even. Ready to kick it up a notch.

Are ya hot mama? You sure look that way to me...

After only two miles, my face glowed bright red like the center of the sun. God, it was hot. Sweat and road grime rolled steadily down my face, legs, arms, and midsection.

Rescue me...should I go wrong...if I dig too deep...if I stay too long...

I plodded on. The run was a bit ambitious for me after a six-day hiatus, but I was determined to finish. I told myself that this was just a weekday training run, and six miles is nothing compared to the distance I've corvered. Are we at the halfway point yet? The heat was testing my resolve, stretching each torturous mile out longer and longer.

You got me begging you for mercy....why won't you release me?

After the turnaround, the worst part of my run loomed before me: an absolute wall of a hill. All those Tabor runs hadn't prepared me for this: running up a steep grade in 95 degree weather. I fought and wheezed through the pain, as the searing heat made my heart rate skyrocket. I pushed harder than ever, dug deeper.

Minimum...maximum...beats per minute...

My heart was pounding at 181 bpm. It's amazing how much harder running is when the relentless sun beats down on you, penetrating every muscle in your body. I finally crested the hill, and stomped down the descent. Short, quick steps, strike with the ball of your foot. When I reached flat road, my body had gotten used to the motion. My arms and legs moved like clockwork, my entire body swimming through an ocean of heat waves. I fell into the hypnotic rhythm and willed it to carry my home.

Whatever's in front of you, keep on keepin' on...

Just when I was ready to give up and slow to a walk, I turned a corner and knew the house was only a block away. I knew I would make it to the finish. I hit the final stop sign and sprinted up the street - anything to get this run over with and get out of what felt like a dry sauna. When I saw the house, I slowed to a walk and tried to bring my heart rate down carefully.

It was over. With one oppressively hot training run, I'd put myself back in the game. Like a phoenix from the ashes, I rose again to reclaim my training regimen. After all, July is almost upon us, and it's time for me to get really serious.

Ctrl + Alt + Del...Restart

I suffered what you might call a minor setback this week. I'd been plugging along dutifully, carefully tracking each bite of food that entered my mouth and proudly checking each workout off the weekly calendar, when all of a sudden, Life Happened.

I felt like I'd walked blindly into oncoming traffic. The work days stretched out, each one longer and more arduous than the next. Family obligations beckoned. I found myself desperate to regain my focus and commitment, strapped for time, low on energy, and mentally drained. I had to force myself to do the bare minimum to keep up the status quo, and cursed myself for missing too many workouts.

By Wednesday, I'd had enough. It was time to get back to reality, and back to my training. Onward and upward, so to speak.

I never know where my mind will take me when I strap running shoes on my feet and head out the door. The second my soles strike pavement and the momentum builds, my thoughts drift away and swirl round my head rather dreamily.

One afternoon, I got to thinking about computers. They can freeze and crash when too much information overloads the system, and conversely, they can go into "sleep" mode after a significant lull in activity. When you encounter some computer trouble, sometimes simply restarting it can help clear up whatever went wrong. You reboot, and the problem simply vanishes, as though there had never been anything wrong in the first place.

I feel I'm the same way.

I overextended myself, as I often do. I have a problem saying no, and can't help feeling guilty whenever I put myself first. As a result, my mind was foggy, my body was tired, and I had to recharge. A quad-crushing hill run is exactly what I needed to clear away this oppressive cloud of listlessness.

I woke up early. I put on my favorite running gear (Adidas sports bra, Nike running capris, and my blue Santa Monica Classic 10-K tee shirt.) I wore my favorite Assos headband to keep my awkward "bangs" out of my face. I slid the iPod earbuds into my ears, hit "start" on my heart rate monitor, and took off in the direction of Mt. Tabor Park.

Reboot.

Wildwood's Revenge

The week pressed on as I dutifully stuck to my training regimen: 6 mile hill run, track workout, two 5:00 AM gym workouts, and a nice flat 5 miles on the waterfront. My legs are slowly beginning to come around, which I think is due mostly to the speedwork. On Friday night, I double-checked the training log for tomorrow's long run.

Well, well, well. Wildwood Trail, we meet again. This time, I'll be ready for you...or so I think.

Same bleary-eyed morning routine: whole grain cereal, fruit, cottage cheese, and coffee. Sports drink: check. Chocolate Gu packets: check. Hydration belt: fully stocked. Muscles: stretched. 7:30 AM rolls around and I'm out the door and off into the wilderness.

The distance today is a choice of 12, 14, or 16 miles. Since I've had experience on this trail, I know better than to shoot for a 14. Knowing how Wildwood will surely test my will, I settle on 12 miles. I don't want to be disappointed when I inevitably tap out at the end. I line up with the four-hour marathon pace group and we hike up the road to the starting point.

Everything starts off swimmingly. We head off at a relaxed 11:20 per mile pace, and my heart rate settles comfortably at 161 bpm. The first two miles are gently rolling hills, and the scenery is beautifully green and lush. I'm with a faster group this time, and my footsteps fall right in line with theirs. My place at the front of the single-file line makes me feel like an integral part of the team.

We arrive at Rest Stop #1 in no time. Stretch, hydrate, refuel. We start the descent down for Part 2, and I know that this is where the fun will really begin. The steady and sharp downhill pitch in the beginning always makes me dread the return. Sharp switchback, steep incline, root, branch, rock, fern. The guy in front of me stumbles over a wayward branch, so of course, I immediately trip over it and fall down in the dirt. The trail is jarring on my ankles, knees, and hips. It's a challenge just to stay balanced and upright.

We get pretty far along, without the soft, oozing puddles of mud this time. I'm proud to see we've gone much further into the trail than we did last time. I'm so focused on myself and my thoughts that I don't even hear the commotion in front of me. I'm suddenly seized by an intense, searing pain in my thighs and it feels like daggers driving into my flesh. Everyone is panicking. Did I get hit with a stinging nettle or something? What the hell just happened?

It takes me a second or two to discover we've been attacked by a swarm of aggressive, angry wasps. The groups in front of us must have disturbed their nest and boy, are they pissed off. There's about six wasps latched right onto both of my legs, stinging repeatedly. I have a phobia of bees and wasps, which doesn't help because I only have a tiny, single track trail on which to COMPLETELY FREAK OUT. I jump up and down, brushing them off my throbbing legs. Another one descends on my right thigh and I swat at it frantically. My right index finger promptly swells up and hardens. "Did anyone get stung?" asks the pace leader. I nod and manage to say yes. Not sure how many times, but it feels like a thousand.

I will my aching legs to move on. We hit the second rest stop and collect ourselves. I can barely stand up straight at this point, and peel back my running tights at the knee to have a look at what lies beneath. There's a raw, red, bleeding dot where I got stung. I know there are several more on my upper thighs, but I have to ignore them for now. My finger is swollen and bruised, and I'm not looking forward to the return trip.

Our group comes up with a plan: separate and sprint through the wasp's nest. I ask if I can use anyone as a human shield, half in jest. I sprint for my life, waving my arms in front of my legs and desperately hoping they got enough of me the first time around. I narrowly escape, unstung this time. My comrades aren't so lucky - two girls get stung, one of them on her neck.

I can feel my thighs swell and harden through my running tights, and the multiple spots where I got hit are throbbing and burning brightly. I press on, and start to fall behind a little. I had tried to make a mental note of all the steep downhill spots on the way out, but there were too many to remember. It feels like we're running completely uphill the whole time, and hill running isn't my strength.

Around a bend, I let most of the group pass me by. As we move on, the gap widens even further. Another member of the group falls back with me, due to an IT band injury. We slog up the big hill alone, having completely lost sight of the pack. I'm wheezing and panting, willing my swollen legs to stumble upward while my companion is taking it easy to protect his left leg. We're trail running road kill. There are so many twists and turns that I can't see the opening of the trail, and the rest stop. It's killing me, and just when I'm about to give up and start walking, I hear whoops and hollers. Oh sweet Jesus - we're done. We've made it.

When I finally get home and run a hot bath, I peel off my sweaty layers to carefully inspect the carnage. I have 11 wasp stings total, all glowing red, swollen, and angry. I wonder briefly if I should seek medical attention. As I sit on the edge of the tub and wait for it to fill, I give myself kudos for finishing what I started. Sure, I ran the shortest distance of the day, fell face-first in the dirt, got attacked by wasps, lost the group, and ran out of steam at the end, but the point is, I never gave up.

Oh Wildwood, you'll test me every time, but you'll never get the best of me.